


Alone

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, F/M, Fluffy Ending, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 04:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15429378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: She’s walked through the other side of a nightmare, but Grace isn't quite content as she is.





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Joodiff. She gave me a screencap and a 1,000 word limit. To boost my creativity.

**Alone**

* * *

It’s a completely normal, unremarkable Friday evening. It’s late, the throngs of show-goers are safely tucked away inside the theatres, and thanks to the heavy rain earlier in the day the normally heaving crowds of fun seekers are somewhat thinned out.

The ground is still very wet underfoot, the busy city’s lights bouncing off the surface of the many puddles left lying about, their watery depths creating hazards to be carefully dodged. Striding slowly around a particularly large pool, Grace miss-steps and wavers slightly, struggling to regain her centre of gravity.

A strong hand grasps her arm, anchors her.

“Steady.” Tall man, deep voice. Tough exterior, heart of gold.

“Thank you,” she tells him, grateful.

Boyd studies her cautiously, seems to take his time to decide she’s fine and able to continue. Briefly, Grace wonders why, but then he’s teasing her gently and she’s responding quickly because the familiar banter is even more precious now, matters to her more than it has ever done.

“I suppose it would be ungentlemanly of me to suggest that perhaps you’ve had too much to drink?”

There’s a smirk in his eyes, one she’s always adored. She laughs. Has to.

“I had one glass, Boyd. And you witnessed it.”

“True, true,” he concedes. 

“Though nowadays,” she admits, “I don’t have the tolerance I used to.”

It’s their new end-of-week evening tradition, or routine. Whatever it is, it developed when she started back to work and has continued every week since. They’re now a couple of months in, and he’s never once raised any objection, never tried to find something else to do. Has actively put other things aside to leave the building with her, in fact. Even seems to look forward to their quiet dinners and subsequent slow wanders through the city.

“No?” A soft, gentle query, laced with a touch of concern.

“Sadly not. Nearly eight months without alcohol…”

“You’re feeling okay now, though?” It’s a quick reply, the lurking worry not quite so well concealed this time.

It touches her, makes the evening’s chill feel a little more distant for a moment. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” A little gruff, but still compassionate. Then, “At least you’ve got your appetite back.”

At the weekends, on her better days, he took her out for fresh air. Little trips to the seaside or the park, to independent cafés and quirky restaurants. And every time she could see him fretting about how little she ate.

He kept her company, and he kept her sane.

When all else is said and done, he’s her best friend. Has been for a long, long time.  

“I have,” she nods, not pushing the matter any further.

They skirt another lake-esque puddle. “I’m glad it’s stopped raining,” muses Boyd, tone idle as he looks about, surveying their surroundings.

Grace has a strong impression that he’s thinking aloud, but she speaks anyway. “Fed up with being cooped up inside?”

A wry smile flickers across his lips as she looks sideways. “That noticeable, huh?”

“The volume definitely crept up and up as the afternoon wore on,” she teases.

Boyd grimaces, clearly thinking of just how much shouting he’s done today. “Sorry.”

Really, it’s just too easy. “Such impatience with the troops…”

“Yeah, well, if they worked faster they could start their weekend sooner. And I wouldn’t have to – ” He stops, realises she is laughing at him. That he walked straight into her trap. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he grumbles, shaking his head. 

It’s difficult to hide her grin, and clearly he notices.

“Yeah, that’s right, have a good laugh at my expense, why don’t you. Charming!”

He’s nowhere near as offended as he’s pretending, and Grace knows it. Doesn’t bother to mask her amusement as he gives a remarkable expression of a child sulking before the scream of sirens builds and builds, and then a motorcycle, two patrol cars and a riot van scream past in quick succession.

“Friday night mayhem,” grimaces Grace.

“Makes me so glad my response days are a long, long way behind me. I pity the poor boys and girls working the weekend nights these days.”

Watching the blue lights fade, she finds herself wondering something. “Do you ever miss it?”

“What?”

“Front line policing. Being part of all the action.”

Boyd considers her words for a while, eventually admitting, “Yes. I miss the camaraderie in the patrol wing, and the team fun. I miss driving, too – there’s nothing like a good blue light run. But the shifts, and the endless, relentlessness of it all, the drunken, stupid people lost in the mire of their own pathetic, needlessly dramatic lives… no. Not at all.”

“And you’re happy with the direction your career has taken?”

“God, you’re full of questions tonight, aren’t you?” There’s a long pause, but not for one minute does Grace think he’s forgotten her query. Or that he’s ignoring her.

“Yes, yes I am. I can’t deny that I hate paperwork and being chained to my desk, but I love command. Doing what we do now – the CCU – it gives me the opportunity to go out that I wouldn’t get anywhere else, and I don’t have to work earlies, nights and late shifts, which my body definitely couldn’t keep up with anymore. It’s the best of both worlds, I guess.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He eyes her suspiciously. “That’s it?”

“Yes,” she laughs. “You don’t have to look so distrustful, Boyd. There’s no ulterior motive.”

“Then why do you ask?”

Grace shrugs. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“Hmm. If you say so.”

Never willing to let him have the last word, she nods. “I do.” The snort that issues from beside her lets her know that he knows, and that he’s grudgingly letting her get away with it.

They continue to walk, their destination unspecified as they enjoy the light, post-dinner exercise and the conversation that ebbs and flows, much like the crowds of people milling about and enjoying a break in the dull, damp weather.

“Do you ever wonder what people are thinking?”

The question comes from nowhere and, surprised, she glances sideways at him. “Feeling philosophical, Peter?”

Peter. It feels so natural to say it, outside of the basement that sometimes, just sometimes, feels rather more like a prison than an office.

Hazel eyes meet hers, linger for just a little too long, causing a shiver to run through her. Grace feels… something. Can’t put her finger on what, though.

Can, but can’t admit it.

Boyd sighs, clearly weary. Stuffs his hands into the depths of the pockets of the heavy winter coat that only recently re-appeared as part of his daily wardrobe. Grace allows herself to wonder if it is as soft to the touch as she suspects it might be.

“Not really, no.”

“I see.” Impulsively, she links her arm through his as they continue to walk. “Well, it’s kind of my job to wonder what people are thinking…”

Not making any move to shrug her off, Boyd nods. “Fair point.”

“But?” she probes.

Those eyes again, sharp and curious in their quick glance sideways. “But what?”

“You asked for a reason, and I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re leaving something out.”

She half expects him to ignore her. To keep walking in silence beside her, the damp air pressing in on them, its chill becoming more and more evident.

Boyd surprises her. Yields and asks, “Do you ever wonder what people are thinking about you and me? About… us?”

Grace wonders what he wants her to say. Whether he’s hoping she will give him something specific in response. She gives him the truth. “No, I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Really?”

“Really. What’s the point? People will think what they want to think, why should I spend my time worrying or caring?”

“Very true.”

He seems deflated, and it spurs her next words to him. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

It’s so very like him, she contemplates, refusing to let the growing edge of exasperation take a firm hold. Just what is it he’s trying but failing to tell her? “Wonder what other people are thinking about us?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“And then?”

“And then… I get angry.”

 It’s like prying blood from a stone, Grace thinks, determination rising. “Why is that?”

“I… I’m not sure. I just, people make judgements without having facts, and that annoys me. They assume things and then they gossip, and that’s how rumours start.”

She knows instinctively that it’s not what he was going to say. Not what he wanted to say. Whatever it is, though, that’s rattling around inside his skull, it isn’t going to break free and make itself known to her. Not tonight anyway.

From nowhere the urge to grab him and shake him grips her, but she fights it off. No matter how desperate she is for the truth from him, it’s not worth the hassle of annoying him that much. Not when their evening has been so very pleasant. Forcing back a sigh, she replies with a mild, “It is.”

They’ve almost reached Tower Bridge now, and there’s a full moon rising amongst the many clouds that are backlit in a dark sky. It’s a dramatic, beautiful effect, and Grace pauses by the wall to admire it.

“Stunning,” she whispers, the breath caught in the back of her throat.

Boyd stops beside her, considers the sky. “It’s pretty,” he agrees.

Struck by sudden memories, and a deep wave of something a little like homesickness but that she instantly tells herself can’t possibly be, Grace tells him, “I want to go somewhere with big landscapes and open skies. Somewhere I can see the stars at night, where there aren’t millions of people and cars and lights.”

As he turns to look at her, Boyd’s expression is unreadable. “Time for a holiday?”

“Mmm, maybe.”

“Or are you getting fed up with London?”

His gentle perceptiveness startles her, makes her tear her eyes away from the gorgeous sky to study him. He looks tired. Lonely.

Despite the fact that there’s not even two feet between them.

“I love London,” she says slowly, “but I never expected to stay here as long as I have. Even after all these years it’s still not home. Not really.”

There’s the tiniest flash of fear in his eyes; it’s almost immediately hidden, but for a moment it is there, stark and clear. “What will you do when you retire?”

“I really don’t know,” Grace admits, resting her gloved hands on the wall in front of her and twisting to study the water. It’s choppy and restless. Rather like she suddenly feels.

The atmosphere suddenly changes, and she can almost feel him retreating inside himself. “You okay?” she asks, trying not to sound as concerned as she is.

“Tired,” in the grunted, almost dismissive reply.

“Probably time to start heading home to bed,” she offers, keeping her tone as light as she can. It’s an unappealing prospect, despite the sudden downshift in mood.

“Right,” he mutters. “Home…”

She’s not imagining how less than enthused he sounds. How tired and fed up, and thoroughly dejected. 

It’s almost as if…

No, she tells herself. It _can’t_ be.  

But what if it _is_?

A thousand and one arguments form in her mind, but each one is easily batted away. Ignored.

They can’t carry on like this, they just _can’t_. It hurts far too much.

Grace exhales slowly, takes a deep, deep breath in. Throws caution and common sense to the wind and meets his gaze straight on. “Come home with me,” she suggests. “Stay. Remind me what it’s like not to be alone.”

Boyd looks up at her. Openly stares, appears frozen. Finally answers with a cracked, hoarse, “I can’t remember what that feels like.”

“Then remember with me.”

His hands are still shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Defensive. Wary. “Why?”

She could lie. Walk away. Pretend this never happened. It would be so easy, she knows.

Or she could be honest.

A damn sight more difficult and dangerous, but…

Maybe, just maybe…

“Because I love you.”

The silence between them seems to stretch forever. Grace doesn’t move, barely even breathes. It’s the biggest gamble she’s ever taken, and if it all goes wrong she will have to walk away from absolutely everything. Him, the CCU, consulting for the Met. Will turn around and not look back, not even once.

She doesn’t shy away though. Instead, she stands firm before him and waits. Refuses to crumble under his dark, accusing stare.

“Why are you telling me this now, Grace?” There’s something rather like anguish in his face as he stares down at her, the light from the street lamp above streaming down around him, casting him in light and shadow.

She’s been entirely honest with him so far, and she isn’t going to stop now. “Because I’ve spent the last however many months feeling hideously ill and hiding away from the world, thinking I wouldn’t come out the other side. I promised myself that if I survived, I’d tell you the truth. So I have.”

Boyd rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in untidy spikes. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters, glaring at her.

“I’m sorry,” Grace shrugs, and she means it. Exhausted, she forces herself not to lean back against the wall . To stand her ground in front of him. “It’s true, though. It’s been true for years.”

“Years…” he echoes, disbelief in his tone.

It’s too much effort to give him more than a simple answer. “Yes.”

Suddenly he’s furious, seems to swell in height as he glowers down at her. “Then why couldn’t you have told me this years ago?” he almost roars.

It’s tempting to walk away from him, but she doesn’t. Instead she puts her hands on her hips and scowls up at him, challenges him with, “Would you have listened to me years ago?”

The wind is instantly sapped from his sails. It’s not an accusation he can deny, and he knows it. “No.”

“Well then.”

He turns, paces to the left three steps, to the right four. Twists and puts himself right back in front of her. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Jesus Christ, I really can’t believe this.”

“ _What_ can’t you believe, Peter?”

“That you, what you’re, this…” The words come out as a jumble and he stops himself, closes his eyes, tilts his head back. Visibly counts silently to ten, then twenty. One long, long steadying breath escapes him. “Fuck…”

Grace waits. Summoning every last shred of her patience, she stands still and waits, trying her best to fight off the rising sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

And then suddenly her hands are in Boyd’s as he stands in front of her, staring down, his eyes over-bright. “I’m listening, Grace,” he tells her, and he means it. He really means it. “Whatever it is you’re trying to tell me, I’m listening.”

“Come home with me,” she repeats. “I’m tired of being lonely, of hiding. Of being _alone_.”

Cold fingers brush through her hair, his palm coming to rest against her neck. “You don’t still have that stupid little dog, do you?” he asks. “The one that tried to bite my ankles when we first met.”

She laughs gently in memory. Can do nothing but. “No. I have an angry cat, and a nice cat. If you’re lucky, the angry cat will be out hunting and won’t notice you.”

“I see,” he replies slowly, almost seriously. “And if I’m not lucky?”

He’s going to kiss her, she knows it. And everything might just _finally_ be all right. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

Mischief flickers in his face, warms her from the inside. “Is that a promise?”

His face is very close to hers now, and his eyes are twinkling as his mouth arcs into a roguish grin. Suddenly her heart is beating very fast. “Yes.”

It’s absolutely perfect, that first kiss. Warm and sensual and lingering, and when he eventually pulls back and leaves her stunned and silent, she has no doubt whatsoever that she definitely made the right decision to speak up.

* * *

“I like your house,” Boyd announces, appearing in the kitchen doorway late the next morning, having been exploring while she came down to make a start on breakfast. “It’s nice. Cosy. Comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

He ambles into the room, barefoot and all long limbs and curiosity clad a pair of snug black trunks and yesterday’s shirt, left open and unbuttoned. Deliberately, Grace concentrates on slicing the fruit in front of her, because if she doesn’t…

A sudden absolute stillness catches her attention, though, and against her better judgement she looks up. Eyes wary, Boyd is staring at the fleece-lined cardboard box wedged against the wall on top of on her small, square kitchen table. The petite, black and white cat curled up inside is gazing sedately back at him.

“That’s Lilly. Give her some fuss and she’ll be your best friend forever.”

“Right…” Despite the disbelief in his tone, he offers his hand and is instantly rewarded with a deep purr.

“I told you so,” smirks Grace, returning to her task.

“Lilly,” notes Boyd. “White stripe on her nose, looks like she was all black until a tin of white paint was splattered over her.”

“They both look like that, but George has a black nose.”

“And an attitude problem?” The question is unnecessarily suspicious.

“Something like that, yes.”

The fatalistic, dramatic, “I’m doomed,” makes her want to roll her eyes. Really, he’s such a drama queen sometimes.

“George thinks he’s man of the house. He doesn’t like other men. Sometimes I think he doesn’t even like me, but then he does something really sweet and I change my mind.”

“Freak.”

Grace ignores the insult. Continues with, “If he was human I’d say he definitely had some sort of personality disorder.”

Boyd snorts, heavy sarcasm layering his, “How charming…”

“Are you going to continue to insult my cat, or make yourself useful?”

This time she can hear the smirk in his voice. “That depends on how you’d like me to be useful.”

“Down boy,” she scolds. “You may think I’m all sweetness and light, but I am _not_ a morning person, and if I don’t get my tea and breakfast…”

His tone drops, becomes more of a purr. “Oh, and there was me thinking you were wide awake earlier…”

There’s really not a lot she can say to that, so Grace reaches for a saucepan, busies herself with ingredients.

“I never saw you as a cat person, you know,” is the sudden, faintly amused, partly curious statement that comes her way. “How long have you had them?”

“They’re five. They came with the house as kittens when I moved in – I could hardly turn them out, could I?”

Boyd sounds incredulous as he speaks, “They came – ”

 “It’s a long story,” she shrugs. “I’ll tell you about it sometime, if you’re a good boy, now rinse those blueberries for me.”

There’s something delightfully wicked about the grin that comes her way then. “And if I’m a bad boy instead?”

She pauses, deliberately. “Blueberries.”

He doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t. “Grace?”

“I’ll think about it.”

A cackle greets her ears. “I can’t wait.”

* * *

“Mm,” Boyd sighs, leaning back in his chair and putting his fork down. “That was delicious. Do you always have breakfasts like that?”

Laughing, Grace shakes her head. “No, only on Saturdays.”

“Then I know where I’m spending my Friday nights in future,” is the bold, returning declaration.

“Oh you do, do you?” Her response may be playful, but her thoughts aren’t. Not when his words spark a flare of hope that even until now she hasn’t allowed herself to feel.

Those eyes catch hers again, and not for the first time Grace is struck by just how easily she could find herself drowning in them.

She wants him. Right here and now. It’s far from a new thought, but after last night… After spending so many midnight hours getting to know one another, exploring new possibilities and finding endless pleasures…

She’s already hopelessly addicted, and she knows it. Better still, she can see the same thing reflected back in his eyes from across the table. In fact, he’s moving, the muscles in his arms bunching as he starts to push his chair backwards, the mischievous glint in that entrancing hazel telling her exactly what he’s thinking.

She doesn’t mind. Not at _all_.

In fact –

The cat flap rattles, startling them both. Grace automatically looks behind her, sees her handsome boy stop halfway into the house, his amber eyes fixed unblinkingly, accusingly on Boyd. “Hello, George,” she croons.

Very slowly, very deliberately, one back leg makes its way onto the house, followed by the other. Black and white fur stands up on end, the athletic, normally sleek lines of the mighty hunter’s body swelling to twice their usual size, making him appear chunky and threatening. Brilliant white fangs are bared too, as the cat expresses his clear displeasure with a deep, livid growl.

“Naughty boy,” she scolds, but it is lightly said, for George has his own character and she adores him as he is. Across from her, Boyd hasn’t moved a muscle, is half standing, half sitting rigidly in his chair and staring steadily at the cat, who is glaring back.

The stalemate holds for over a minute, and then the feline stalks slowly, arrogantly across the room and out through the open door, undoubtedly going to claim his daytime resting place on the small beanbag behind the armchair.

“Fuck…” It’s a long, drawn out hiss as the cat retreats and Boyd sinks back into his chair. “You weren’t kidding about him being angry.”

Getting to her feet and heading for the sink, Grace eyes her companion sidelong. “Says he who nearly flew off the handle when I made a teeny tiny admission last night…”

“I did not.” Instantly defensive. And amusing.

“Oh you did, Peter, you did.”

“Hmph.”

He’s being ridiculous, and maybe even on purpose. “I think, perhaps, that you and George might be temperamentally well suited,” she poses. “You’re quite similar, really.”

“Grace!”

Innocently, she smiles at him. “Yes?”

Hands on his hips, Boyd is a tall and very enticing picture of near naked masculinity as he gives her a glower that is entirely feigned. “You are so… annoying,” he accuses.

It’s a real effort to suppress a cackle of mirth. “You told me that last night,” she reminds him, leaving the water running as she returns to collect their used plates. He’s standing right beside the table, so essentially he’s in her way, she tells herself as she steps right into this personal space and looks up, a deliberately doe-eyed look on her face that she knows does very bad things to his ability to argue effectively with her. Reaching out, she rests one soapy finger against his chest, holding it there for a moment before slowly tracing her way down towards his navel, enjoying the way the bubbles leave a trail in her wake. Voice just a touch rougher, she gazes straight at him. “It was just after midnight, as I recall,” she continues, “and it was about five minutes before you were gripping the bed sheets and howling my name…”

There’s really not a lot Boyd can say in response, no argument he can hope to employ. He tries, though, naturally. Protests with, “I don’t howl.”

Smirking, Grace lets her finger trail lower, though not quite far enough to touch the waistband of his trunks. “Oh you do, Peter, you definitely do.”

Knowing the sink is in danger of overflowing, and that it will frustrate him immeasurably, Grace quickly reaches for the plates and the turns away to begin the washing up.

Prowling the room, investigating once more, Boyd asks, “Why haven’t you got a dishwasher?”

Reaching for the sponge, Grace pauses, shrugs. “I never got round to getting one, I suppose. And it’s just me – I don’t make that much mess.”

He’s by the large window at the back of the room now, gazing out into the gloomy drizzle. 

“Even in the rain your garden looks nice,” he muses. “You must spend a lot of time working on it.”

“More than I’d like,” she admits, turning to watch him. “But mostly it’s easy care, deliberately designed that way. My father was an… enthusiast… He’d come back and haunt me if it was a disgrace out there.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“What, gardening?”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head, admits, “No. But I enjoy having a tranquil oasis to spend time in when the weather’s nice, so it’s a trade-off, I suppose.” 

Sod it, decides Grace, the pots can just sit and soak for now.

“Is that a pond?” He’s peering carefully to the left, squinting somewhat.

“Yes.”

“Is there anything in it?”

Dampening a dishcloth, she begins to wipe the surfaces down. “You’re full of questions this morning, aren’t you?”

Those powerful shoulders shrug, making the fabric of his shirt ripple. “I’m curious.”

Wryly, she replies with, “I’d noticed.”

Everything is changing, she can feel it. And though there is a little uncertainty, there is also a big pull of something else, something she couldn’t make herself let go of if she tried.

“What else have you noticed, Grace?”

It’s an effort not to roll her eyes at the sly question. Instead she settles with, “Many, many things, Peter.” Then, before he can come up with a suitable response, she continues with, “Fish, newts, frogs – the usual.”

“And your cats don’t eat them?”

“There’s a net over the top, otherwise Lilly will catch the fish and leave them on the grass. George doesn’t care. If it doesn’t run or fly, he’s not interested.”

His fascination with the world outside the window is interesting. It’s not something she’d have expected from him. Filing it away for future exploration, Grace lets her mind wander to another question that’s been forming. “Have you really never been out in the garden?” Not a single instance comes to mind. In fact –

Boyd is shaking his head. “No, I haven’t. Not here, anyway. I did at your old place. You had that big, comfy hammock.”

Memories stir of him lazing about on a sunny Saturday afternoon in the aftermath of the two of them poring over papers for hours on end, trying to find some sort of lead in a twenty-five year old double murder that had been frustrating the team for weeks. “I still have it.”

“Really?” The spike of interest in his tone is marked. Makes her grin to herself.

“Really. It’s in the shed until better weather returns.”

He’s turned away from the window, is watching her with a healthy degree of speculation. It doesn’t take any imagination to guess what’s going through his mind as he says, “It’s big enough for two, as I recall…”

“It is indeed.” There’s enough mystery in her words to spark a riot of images in his mind, she knows. It’s deliberate. And satisfying to watch as she flicks a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, observing with a secret thrill the way he is standing so stock still, back rigid as he pauses in the act of stroking his beard reflectively.

Leaving him to his thoughts, she refills the water dish on the floor and then rinses her dish cloth. Her thoughts turn from thread to thread, settling on something that has been flickering in the background for the last few minutes.

“All those times you came and took me out,” Grace muses, thinking back over the long, hard months of illness and just how good to her he was. She’s thinking to herself, doesn’t realise the words have been spoken aloud until she feels him behind her.

Strong hands land on her waist, a tall solid body crowds against her back. “Mm?”

“I didn’t notice it at the time, but you never once came inside.”

Boyd is effortlessly, languidly nuzzling her hair, despite the tension she can sense building inside him. It feels exquisite. “No.”

Ignoring the dishcloth, Grace dries her hands and turns to face him, finds herself almost instantly ensnared as his arms curve around her, linking at her back as he takes a step closer. It’s distracting, the way he’s gazing down at her with such absorbed focus. Still, she forces herself to ask what she’s wondering. “Why?”

Her neck is being nibbled, a slow, lazy torture. His breath brushes against her ear, the tip of his tongue flicking over the lobe before that too is caught gently between his teeth. “Do you really not know, Grace?”

“No,” she gasps, and it’s a damn good thing she’s pinned between him and the work surface.

He kisses her then. Long and sweet and slow, the heat between them gradually rising as her knees weaken even further and her breath becomes shallower and shallower.

Boyd pulls back, kisses her throat, swirls his tongue in the hollow there, nips the skin lightly. Grace moans, she knows she does, as her arms wind tighter around him, refusing to release him.

Hazel eyes that are vividly bright in the gloomy light of the wet, rainy morning appear right in front of her own. They burn with a fire she thinks she’ll never tire of seeing. A fire for her. “I wouldn’t have been able to leave,” he whispers. “You were so ill, and you needed your space, your rest…”

Fingers in his hair, body pressed snugly against his, Grace sighs with happiness. “I’m not ill now,” she reminds him, underscoring her words by arching her back, pushing her hips against him.

The _look_ in those eyes… Christ, she could drown in them for eternity. “No,” he acknowledges, and it’s throaty and raw, suddenly much deeper. “You’re wonderfully, beautifully alive.”

She just knows he’s leaving something out. “And?”

Boyd lifts her, groans as she immediately wraps her legs around his waist, tightens her arms around his neck. He meets her in a kiss that is hot and hard and deeply, deeply erotic. “And,” he tells her gravely, already heading for the door, “I think we most definitely need to celebrate that.”

She agrees, wholeheartedly.

It’s nothing like the gentle explorations of last night. Nothing at all. No, this time it is hotter and rougher, far more impatient but just as incredibly, wonderfully good. They meet and merge in that desperate, aching place where it’s just the two of them and that overwhelming, blistering pleasure. And when they are again both thoroughly sated, as she lies sprawled across his chest, still breathless and panting, his arms clutching her tightly to him, the only thing running through Grace’s mind aside from an overwhelming sense of love and satisfaction, is just how unbelievably perfect they seem to be together.

Everything has changed, she knows. Changed forever. And maybe, just maybe, she dares to allow herself to hope, after all the stress and the grief and the hell of the last few years, the universe is finally giving them the lucky break they so richly deserve, finally allowing a future where neither of them are still alone.


End file.
